


The Mummy: Sterek Edition

by Squishy91



Category: The Mummy, teen wolf - Fandom
Genre: Derek is rick, M/M, Pretty much it, The mummy rewrite, only a few characters are teen wolf, stiles is evelyn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-12
Updated: 2017-05-03
Packaged: 2018-09-08 03:38:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8828875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Squishy91/pseuds/Squishy91
Summary: The story of The Mummy rewritten to fit Derek and stiles. The characters as 1920s people so personalities are different. Stiles is proud of what he is: a librarian! And Derek owes him his life.Warning: there may be some anti-homosexual thoughts/actions. I'm trying to stay era and culturally correct while also allowing ourselves to indulge in a favourite pairing. Can of worms I know but I'm trying something so let's all play nice?**TRIGGER WARNING**There is gore, language, non-con themes in body snatching (No actual smut) and all sorts. Please tread carefully.





	1. The American

**THEBES - 2,134 B.C**

_Thebes; the city of the living. Crown jewel to Pharaoh Seti the First the richest Pharaoh to ever live._

The Pharaoh was beloved by all his people and his extensive family. His wives and mistresses had produced many sons and daughters but none that he took more pride in than his first son Hemiunu the crown prince. His favoured concubine had yet to produce any children however that did little to dissuade his attentions.

His palace sat along the Nile in glorious splendour. Blistering winds blew from the desert as the sun overhead warmed the white marble of the buildings and courtyards. During his rule pharaoh Seti gave his people peace and plenty. However not all were satisfied; his favoured concubine, Anck-Su-namun, had betrayed him by falling in love with his most trusted advisor: the high priest Imhotep.

The tale of the Pharaohs death was told across the land as it fell into a tragic tale of betrayal: the Pharaoh came upon the lovers and was betrayed. They killed him for standing between their love. The two vowed to risk life itself to be together. Upon the Pharaohs death his concubine was executed for her crimes; her body mummified and cursed. One man had dared to touch what belonged to the Pharaoh and now no man would touch her body again.

The priest deceived the Magi, the Pharaohs guards, into believing he was faithful and spirited her body away to Hamunaptra the city of the Dead to bring her back to life even if it went against the very will of the Gods.

His plot was discovered. The Pharaohs guards buried him alive cursing his very soul to being bound in his body; immortal never allowed to pass to the afterlife but suspended forever between the living and the dead. The Hom-Dai created a being of the undead cursed for all eternity.

  
**THE SAHARA - 1925**

The sound of gunshots crack through the air as golden sand blows against the ruins of a temple protecting the scattered men of the French foreign legion. The scorching desert sand explodes up as bullets miss their marks, bits of rubble sting the faces of the men cowering behind the ruins.

A single man pops his head above the line of protection for little more than the second it takes to fire to check on the position of the attackers. A line of tribesmen riding horses are charging the line.

“I knew today was going to be a bad day,” he spat sand out of his mouth. Dark stubble covers his cheeks in deference to the length of the campaign in the godforsaken desert.

Another soldier sidles up alongside the man keeping himself well out of target range.

“I would surrender. Why can't we just surrender?” Matt whined from his position near the ground.

“Shut up Matt and give me your ammo,” the man pushes sand covered brunet hair out of his face as he accepts the ammo belt crossing it over his own.

“Cmon Derek lets just run,” Matt cowers against the ground as bullets rain down on them. Derek flinches down before springing back up and shooting at the oncoming horsemen. “Right now. While we can still get away.”

“Shut up and give me your revolver.” Derek growls as he ducks back down as the enemy returns fire. “Not like you'll use it anyway.”

Matt quickly passes over his pistol which Derek tucks into his gun belt alongside his own.

“Good boy,” Derek fire a round of bullets at the quickly approaching enemy. “Now go fetch me a stick.”

Matt makes to get up before settling back down and squinting suspiciously at the other man. “In the desert? Why?”

“It appears,” Derek grunts as he lets loose another torrent of bullets. The horsemen are less than a mile out so he grabs Matt dragging him further into the safety of the ruins. “You are without a spine. Perhaps we can tie it to your back!”

As he reloads the taller man glances down at the one cowering on the ground.

“How'd a guy like you end up in the legion anyway Matt?”

“I got caught robbing a temple. Lots of pricey holy stuff in temples, churches and synagogues.” His voice wheezes in the dust. “And who's there to guard them?”

“Alter boys?” Derek asks with a sneer.

“Exactly! And I speak seven languages so holy places are a specialty of mine. How about you? Kill anyone?” Matt stood wobbly to peer at the oncoming enemy. He tripped on his own feet pulling Derek down with him.

“No but I'm thinking about it.” Derek glares at the other man as he shoves him off.

Pushing to their feet they run down a nearby stone ramp headed to the relative safety of a low stone wall.

“Well what was it then? Robbery? Kidnappin? Extortion?”

“None of the above.”

“Then what the hell are you doing here?!” Matt exclaimed as the horsemen broke the first line of the ruins. The sounds of war cries and galloping horses becoming nearly deafening.

Swinging his pistol up onto the low rubble wall Derek throws a blinding grin towards Matt who has turned white under his tan.

“I was just looking for a good time.”

As he fires a white mare gallops past. The legionnaire lieutenant face contorted in fear rides out of battle; abandoning his men.

“Steady!” Derek's voice cuts across the sounds of battle as the horsemen approach rapidly. The remaining men appear to rally to his cry. A couple abandon post and bolt.

 _What the fuck am I doing?_ He thinks to himself.

The horsemen are quickly gaining ground.

“Steady!” Raising his rifle he glares at the enemy. A few more legionnaires drop their guns and Matt follows suit as they run through the ruins to safety.

_What the hell am I saying?_

The world seems to hold its breath for a brief moment and Derek sights down the barrel of his gun.

“FIRE!” Derek fires upon the enemy with the remaining two ranks of legionnaires following his actions as he fires and reloads in tandem. “Fire!”

Horsemen fall as bullets hit their mark. Their comrades scream their rage in Arabic war cries. The intimidating display scares off more men. The enemy warriors open fire with their own pistols. Almost half of the remaining men fall as the tribesmen hit their targets.

Derek swears as he reloads and glances at his men. They number just over a hundred working in pairs firing and reloading. Paltry numbers compared to the five hundred they started the day with.

“FIRE!” Derek's bullet hits his target spinning the man from his steed. He goes to reload as the enemy line hits the legions front line. Derek swears again as he uses his rifle as a club hitting any enemy that comes near.

He fights in the desperate manner of a man familiar with life or death situations. As he slams the butt of his gun into a riders face he spots Matt crawling on his belly across the sand. He swings the rifle around to shoot an oncoming rider pointing a curved sword in his direction when it make a crushing noise; sand in the mechanism causing it to jam.

Swearing he throws down the rifle and pulls out the two pistols from his belt in a cross draw action. Without aiming he dispatches the rider and several others in quick succession. Around him the legionaries have fallen in droves. He finds himself fighting alone against the seemingly endless tide of horsemen.

His guns click empty.

“Son of a bitch!” He throws the pistols to the ground running flat out towards the temple on the same path Matt had taken. Ahead he can see the weaselly man struggling to close a sandstone door to the ruins.

“Hey Matt! Wait up!” As he yells the sound of hooves on stone greets him. Four horsemen are charging to run him down. Matt glances up and continues to push the door closed. “DON’T YOU CLOSE THAT DOOR!”

The door closes. Derek slams into the door.

“I'm going to get you for this!” He slams a fist into the door before pushing off and sprinting further into the ruins seeking sanctuary.

The sound of hoofbeats gets louder and louder as the riders approach. Finally Derek realises there is no hiding. He is unarmed and out numbered. He turns to face his attackers.

The four horsemen pull their horses to a stop and aim their rifles without a word.

Derek grins at them and flips them the bird as he waits to die.

The horses rear and scream in terror almost throwing their riders. Two bolt taking their riders with them and the remaining two men glance around before speaking quickly in arabic and urging their horses away.

Derek stares down at his finger until a shiver of fear so primal and raw travels down his spine that the hairs on his neck stand up.

Turning in gut wrenching horror he realises he's face to face with a decrepit statue of a jackle. The statue of Anubis.

The sand beneath his feet starts to buck and turn as if a thousand snakes are trying to escape. The gold sand shifts into the image of a face that silently screams.

Without a second glance Derek runs out into the desert as far from the cursed ruins as possible.

\--

A group of horsemen line a ridge looking over the vast emptiness of the desert. A lone figure in a legionnaires uniform staggers away.

“Shall we ride after him?”

The leader covered in blue tattoos and carrying a scimitar shakes his head as Derek seems to sense their presence and look back briefly.

“No the desert will take him.”

\--

 

 


	2. The Librarian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meet Stiles the librarian, his brother Scott who happens to be drunk on any day ending in y and a disheveled prisoner.

**Cairo**  

The city of Cairo is a beautiful, mysterious and vast place filled with adventure and wonder; a perfect reflection of the life and people of Egypt with it's fascinating history. And yet somehow, in his strange quest to know everything he can about Egypt, Stiles has found himself secluded in the bowls of the Cairo museum of antiquities sorting books. He enjoyed the work, no doubts there, however he yearned for more. To be out in the field discovering history instead of cataloging it alone in the dark stacks.

“Tuthmosis? What are you doing here?” Plucking a book from one of the stacks Stiles places his armful of books atop the bookshelf. He had found himself precariously perched on top of a ladder sorting out the S books that needed returning to the shelves. He pushed his glasses up his nose and wiped his hand on his trousers.

Glancing over his shoulder he reaches back to the bookshelf labelled “T”. The shelf is just out of reach, straining he tries to return the book. Clicking his tongue he leans further back causing the ladder to leave its perch and come upright. After a shocked gasp Stiles realises that he's not falling so carefully he steps the ladder around keeping his balance in a lilting dance.

Taking stuttering steps with the ladder he moves forward enough to place the book back onto its correct shelf. Standing upright in satisfaction he over corrects and teeters towards falling. He seems to have gained control when he breathes out a sigh of relief; the action causing the ladder to fall forward into the bookshelf. For a moment everything is still then the bookshelf falls away from the ladder.

Stiles slides down the ladder in a stupor. As his feet hit the ground he steps forward only to be treated to the view of the stacks slowly domino into one another from their circle formation. Books spill forth and cover the floor. Loose pages fly through the air. Thousands of volumes are now scattered across the ground. Stiles closes his eyes listening to the banging sound of each bookshelf falling. As a final resounding crash is heard he peeks out first to his left then his right. The room is compete chaos.

“Oops.” He whispers to himself. Fuck, he thinks more privately.

“Sons of the Messiah! Look at this!” A short squat well dressed man storms into the room; already waving his arms through the air in supplication “Give me frogs, flies, locusts! Anything but this! Compared to you Stiles the other plagues would be a joy!”

“It was an accident I’m very sorry.” Stiles looked around at the mess. He had no idea how to start cleaning this one up.

“My boy when Ramses invaded Syria: that was an accident.” The curators voice was deceptively calm before raising in volume again. “You are a catastrophe! Everyday it's something! Why do I put up with you!”

“Well,” Stiles squares his thin shoulders in indignation. “It's because I can read and write ancient Egyptian, decipher hieroglyphs and hieratic. And I'm the only person within a thousand miles who knows how to code and catalogue the stacks!”

“All of that isn't worth your clumsy accidents everyday! No I put up with you because your mother and father were our finest patrons! Allah rest their souls.” He went silent for a moment before exploding in movement as his short body stomped out of the room. He yells back over his shoulder. “Now straighten up this mess!”

Sighing Stiles starts to pick up books and place them in piles by each shelf. The work is going to take him all night and most of the next two and that's if he can find someone to help him.

There's a noise behind him. He turns to look. There's no one else in the stacks. A shuffling noise echoes out in the still air.

“Abdul? Mohammad? Isaac?” Stiles calls out for the assistants that usually help out in the lower levels. Being almost sunset they should have already headed home for the day.

A gritty scraping sound could be heard from beyond the stacks. Stiles stepped forward hesitantly, beyond the bookshelves the room lengthened into another chamber filled with artefacts waiting to be sorted. Stacks of sarcophagi, towering piles of stone slabs and crate after crate of precious jewels and golden idols. Flickering flames lightened the shadows closest to the torches leaving the rest of the room in deep darkness.

Hesitantly Stiles pulled a torch free and shuffled forward into the waiting darkness. Light cast shadows on the far walls as he crept toward the centre of the room. A single sarcophagus lay unburdened by other artefacts. The torchlight flickered over the open top the stone lid lay beside it.

Placing the torch in a nearby holder Stiles approaches the sarcophagus slowly; wondering when it has been opened.

A skeleton leaps forward hands reaching for Stiles. He raises his arms to protect his face while gasping with shock and fear.

The sound of familiar laugher has him lowering his arms and glaring at the skeleton.

“You! You..!” Stiles fails to grasp the words in his anger.

“Drunkard? Rat bastard? Fool? Brother dear please try be original.” A young man with a floppy thatch of dark hair, a deep tan and a crooked jaw crawls out from the coffin patting the skeleton fondly and he drunkenly staggers to his feet grinning.

“Have you no respect for the dead Scotty?” Stiles pulls a cigarette from the mummies mouth with an irritated frown. “Now is really not the time.”

“Right now I wouldn't mind joining them,” he grins and leans against the sarcophagus taking the cigarette and popping it into his own mouth. “Before the hangover hits.”

“Well I wish you'd do it sooner rather than later!” Stiles fumes. “Before you ruin my career like you ruined yours!”

“I'll have you know my career is on a high note!” Searching his pockets he continues. “Five year scrounging around at digs and here!”

He presents a puzzle box to his brother with a flourish.

“If I have to take another worthless trinket to the Curator to try and sell…” Stiles trails off as he examines the box curiously. The markings and runes are ancient at least four thousand years old. He turns it slowly eyes transfixed.

“All my life Stiles. All my life I've never found anything.” An earnest tone creeps into Scotts voice as his brother examines the box.

“Where did you get it?” Stiles is still suspicious but he can her the earnest tone and remembers how his brother used to be before becoming a drunkard and a cad.

“A dig down in Thebes.” He licks his lips nervously. “Stiles please tell me I've found something!”

Stiles continues his examination pressing the pads of his fingertips against the edges and sides some of which slide under the pressure like a puzzle. Suddenly with a sharp click the box springs open revealing an ancient papyrus map.

“Scotty.”

“Yes?”

“I think you've found something.”

\--

The Curator sat at his desk carefully examining the puzzle box with a jewellers loupe.

“See that symbol there? That's the official Royal seal of Seti the First.” Stiles had been hovering anxiously behind the Curators chair but he stopped to lean over and point out a rune on the side of the box. “I'm sure of it!”

“Perhaps.” The Curator murmurs in a disinterested voice.

Scotty props himself on the edge of the desk.

“Two questions. Who was Seti and was he rich?”

Stiles glared briefly at his brother who moved off of the desk.

“King Seti was the last pharaoh of the Old Kingdom,” Stiles explained with barely contained excitement. “And said to be the wealthiest Pharaoh of them all!”

Scott grins at the idea of the wealthiest pharaoh.

The Curator picks up the map gingerly and examines it with a careful eye.

“It's almost four thousand years old, I've dated it. And the hieratic over there,” Stiles moves further forward almost bouncing in his excitement he takes in a deep excited breathe. “It's Hamunaptra!”

“Young man don't be ridiculous!” The Curator scoffs at Stiles. “We are scholars not treasure hunters! Hamunaptra is a myth.”

“Are we talking about the Hamunaptra?” Scotty slams a hand against his forehead. “The City of Gold?”

“The City of the Dead,” Stiles frowned at the treasure hunters nickname for the city. “And yes; where the early Pharaohs were said to have hidden the wealth of Egypt.”

“Hamunaptra where the whole city was rigged to sink beneath the sands at the flick of a switch!” Scotty’s voice was filled with a rarely seen enthusiasm. “At the Pharaohs command the whole city would disappear beneath the dunes!”

“Except that it disappeared around 2,134 B.C.” Stiles couldn't help but roll his eyes no matter how uncouth the action may be. “The last recorded mention of Hamunaptra is a just before the recording of Pharaoh Seti the Firsts death. After that it is believed that it was sunk beneath the sands and lost to the world.”

“As the Americans would says it's all fairytales!” The Curator huffs out a disbelieving breathe. He lowers the map towards the naked flame of a candle lamp squinting at the map design. “And hokum – oh no!”

The map had caught alight. The Curator quickly threw it off the far side of his desk where it fell to the floor.

Scott runs around the desk and starts frantically patting the flames to blot them out. He lifts the tattered remains.

“You burnt it! You burnt off the part with the city!” He cries devastated looking close to tears.

“It's for the best I'm sure.” The Curator looks upon the brothers with a grim face. “Many have wasted their lives in pursuit of Hamunaptra; none have found it and most never return from the desert. You'd do better than to chase fairy stories.”

“You killed my map.” Scotty stares mournfully at his burnt map.

“I'm sure it was a fake anyway,” he levels a judging look towards Stiles. “I expect this behaviour from your brother but expected better of you, Stiles, to be so fooled.”

Stiles grabbed the puzzle box from the desk and shoved it in his pocket. Grabbing his brother and making his excuses he left the office with a final suspicious look towards the curator.

\--

Stiles looked around the courtyard Scotty and he were being led through and smacked his brother across the back of his head. The Cairo prisons were the cesspit of the city. The lowest form of scumbags could be found there and the warden himself was a first class scumbag. The pig like man lead them through the courtyard towards a set of empty cages that led further into the prison. The prisoner could be brought out to the cage for visitors. The honour of this visit had cost Stiles more money than he usually spent a month.

“You told me you found it in Thebes!” He hissed at Scotty who just smirked.

“I was mistaken.”

“You lied to me!”

“I lie to everybody! What makes this so special?” The young man shrugs one shoulder.

“I am your brother!” Stiles’ hands twitch with the urge to hit him again. “I can't believe you stole it from a drunk at the local casbah!?”

“Picked his pocket actually,” Scott muttered under his breathe.

Stiles glares at his brother again before schooling his face into a polite mask.

“What is this man in prison for?” He asks the warden.

“I did not know,” the warden answered in heavily accented and fractured English. “When I heard you were coming I asked him that myself.”

“And what did he say?” Stiles felt a shiver of trepidation.

“He said,” the warden come at a stop before a visitors cage and banged on the bars alerting the guards to their presence. “He was just looking for a good time!”

The interior door bursts open and four guards throw another man to the floor. He looks like he's been there a while; his beard is long and unkempt, his clothes are torn and dusty while every visible inch of his skin is covered in dirt.

Bright green eyes flashed as he looked Stiles up and down before speaking to Scotty.

“Who's the dandy?”

“Dandy?!” Stiles felt offended. True he wore waistcoats and good trousers but he certainly wasn't overly concerned with fashion!

“Well that there's Stiles,” Scotty seems to be at a loss for words. People didn't usually talk to him first.

“What the hell is a Stiles?” The man looked Stiles up and down quirking an eyebrow.

“I'm a Stiles!” Stiles felt furious at the mans dismissive manner but held his temper barely in check.

The sound of yelling echoed from across the yard. The warden yells back with a quick succession of hand gestures. “I'll be right back.” He stalks away.

“Oh I tremble with anticipation,” the scruffy man mutters earning himself a a few hits from the guard’s clubs. His face bounces off the cage bars and he turns to glare at the guards.

Stiles steps forward lowering his voice to a conspiring whisper. “We, um, found your puzzle box and we'd like to ask you about it-“

“No.”

“No?”

“No.” Derek barely contained his sneer. “You came to ask me about Hamunaptra.”

Stiles’ eyes sparkled with excitement.

“How do you know it pertains to Hamunaptra?” The skeptical tone appeared to amuse the prisoner.

“Because that's where I was when I found it.” He smirked up at Stiles who found himself blushing against any better judgement.

“Well that's a load of pigs swallow.” Scott scoffed. “No ones been to Hamunaptra and lived.”

“Do I know you?” The prisoner frowned up at Scotty. As Scotty started to stammer a reply a fist flies out punching him straight across the jaw. He hits the ground hard.

Stiles stares for a shocked moment at his brother then at the prisoner as he is clubbed again.

“You were actually at Hamunaptra?” Stiles stepped forward into the mans eyesight.

“I just decked your friend.” The disheveled man pointed out curiously.

“My brother actually. And I know him so he probably deserved it.” He shrugged off handedly.

“Yeah I was there,” the prisoner grinned full at Stiles now.

“You swear?”

“Every damn day.”

“No that's not-“

“I know what you meant,” the humour leaked out of his smile as it turned grim. “Seti’s place. The City of the Dead.”

“What did you find?” Stiles could hardly breathe past his excitement. “What did you see?”

Green eyes stared into whiskey brown.

“I found sand and I saw death.”

Just as Stiles opened his mouth unsure what to say he spotted the warden renter at the end of the courtyard.

“Can you tell me how to get there?” He whispered hurriedly. “The exact location?”

“Want to know?” The man whispered forcing Stiles to lean closer.

“Yes!”

“Really want to know?” His eyes searched the younger mans as he waited for an answer.

“Yes!” Stiles found himself almost pressed to the bars in excitement.

Suddenly the man grabbed his bow tie and dragged him forward before mashing their lips together in a fierce passionate kiss.

“Then get me the hell out of here!”

Stiles was left staring gobsmacked as the man was dragged from the bars and clubbed again before being dragged back into the prison.

As the warden rejoins the barely standing Scotty and shocked librarian Stiles turns to speak to the man.

“Where are they taking him?”

“To be hanged!” The warden crowed joyfully showing off crooked green teeth. “Apparently he had a very good time!”

\--

The gallows were set in the middle of the prison yard. Three stories of prisoners could watch from three sides from behind their bars. On the fourth side stood the wall to the outside world. It seemed a cruel trick to hang them in front of the other prisoners and only meters from freedom. Stiles stood in a viewers box one story up holding a hand fan while watching proceedings. This type of thing had never been to his taste and he had already taken a drink to fortify himself.

When the bedraggled prisoner is dragged up to the gallows he swallows nervously knowing the mans life literally hangs in the balance.

He turns to the warden.

“I'll give you one hundred pounds to spare his life,” he tries to speak evenly and without fear.

“I will pay hundred to see this trouble maker hang.” The warden waved a dismissive hand at Stiles.

“Two hundred pounds!” He exclaims watching the hangman tighten the noose around the prisoners neck.

The warden laughs.

“Proceed!”

“Five hundred pounds!” The jeering prisoners fall quiet as they stare at the warden.

He rubs his chin thinking.

The hangman turns to the prisoner with a greasy smile.

“Any last words pig?”

“Yeah,” he spits through gritted teeth. “Let me go.”

The hangman looks to the warden who shakes his head.

“Of course we do not let him go!”

The hangman pulls the lever and the floor drops out from beneath the prisoners feet. He falls and the rope snaps tight.

Stiles feels his heart stop.

“Ah!” The warden stands angrily. “His neck dos not break! Now we must watch him strangle to death!”

The prisoner is gasping for breath, gagging and struggling. Stiles can see him weakening already.

“He knows the location to Hamunaptra,” the words are whispered through a tight throat. Fear paralysing him.

“You lie!” The warden glares at him suspiciously.

“I would never!” He doesn't even need to fake the affront he feels at the accusation.

“Are you saying this filthy godless son of a pig know where to find the City of the Dead? Truly?” The warden points at the prisoner. “This _American_?”

“Yes!” Stiles started to feel desperate as the colour drained from the prisoners face. “And. And if you release him we will give you ten percent!”

“Fifty!”

“Twenty!”

“Forty!”

Stiles bites his lip as he glances over at the prisoner. The man struggling at the end of his noose glares back. He tries to speak but the words garble out of his abused throat.

“Twenty five percent and not a digit more!”

The warden snarls and looks over at the dying man. Time is obviously against him. With a vicious growl the warden waves a hand at the executioner.

“Cut him down!”

The prisoners body crashes to the ground and he lays gasping for breath, gagging over his raw throat. The other prisoners cheer at him!

Stiles smiles down at the man who looked up at him red in both eyes. Stiles had gambled and won this round with the warden.

\--

A dark shadowy room lighted by a single candle. The Curator is sitting at his desk staring at his hands in sorrow.

“You must kill him,” he sighed. “Wait until they leave the city.”

“If he is like the others the desert will kill him.” One of the three men who stood in shadows moved forward. He had a hook for a hand which glistened in the gloom. 

“No he knows too much,” the Curator shakes his head sadly. “He's too smart.”

The Curator puts his head in his hands before taking a fortifying breath.

“No matter what I owe his father he must die,” his gaze turns determined as he faces the men in front of his desk. “He has the key. Once he leaves the city he must die.”

The three men in front of him mutter and shift uneasily. The fear in the room spikes.

“The key?” The man with the hook gasps in a rough gravely voice. “He has the lost key? What of the map?”

“He has that too.” The Curator looks ready to face battle. “No one has ever had so much or been so close. If you do not kill him the we will all die.”

“We will kill him. We swear it,” the three men rest their hands across their hearts as they give their oaths. “We will kill him and everyone with him.”

“Good.” The Curator moved to stand from his seat. His face stonily determined. “Burn the map and retrieve the key.”

“It will be done.” He bowed again in deference. “But what of the Americans? They leave on the same day?”

“Bah! Forget the bumbling Americans! They will be like the others; without the map to guide them the desert will kill them!”

 

 


	3. Dangerous Waters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life takes over writing. But since I've had to quit uni maybe this is something I can complete. 
> 
> My beta is busy with a new baby if there's anyone who'd like to help beta or kick my butt into writing better I'd appreciate it :)

Giza Port.

A week later. 

Matt bowed and smiled his oily snakes grin at three American men carrying duffel bags leading them towards a boat anchored at one of the piers. 

Seagulls screamed and the fresh scent of the river blended with the very human smell of a dirty city port. 

“Three days down the Nile and two by horse Sahibs.” Matt ushered the men aboard. 

“With all the money we're paying you something better be under this god-dammed cursed sand,” The taller, more tanned American pulled a Stetson off his head to wipe at his sweaty brow. A hand hovered over his pistol briefly. 

“’Hamunaptra’ Danny. That's all ya gotta repeat to yeself.” Another cowboy type this one with striking blue eyes and dirty blonde hair. “Hamunaptra.”

“Oh fuck off Jackson,” Danny grinned at his friend. 

\--

Stiles stared across the Nile at the beautiful scene. The blue water was covered in barges and small bright coloured fishing boats. Across where the sands of the desert reached for the shoreline pyramids pierced the sky standing golden in the early light. 

Scotty dodged around hawkers selling fish and fried food to stand beside his brother. He glanced briefly at the water before looking back towards the busy crowds. 

“Almost time to board,” he muttered taking a sip from a flask. 

“So,” Stiles turned from the view to move towards the barge. “Do you think he'll actually show up?”

“No doubt,” Scotty look vaguely condescendingly at his brother. “He may be a cowboy but I know his type. Honourable. His word is his word and he said he'd be here.” 

“Well,” stiles straightened his spine. “I think he's rude, filthy and a complete scoundrel; I don't like him one bit!” 

“Anyone I know?” A clear masculine voice asks from behind the pair. 

They turn to the speaker in embarrassed curiosity. It takes a moment for Stiles to register where he knows the man but the forest green eyes give it away. 

Before him stands Derek Hale; clean shaven with a new haircut, dark hair cropped close at the sides and slightly longer on top; with clean clothes and warmly tanned skin. Stiles thinks he should be excused his confusion as the man in tan desert garb standing in front of him has barely anything in common with the dirty disheveled prisoner wearing rags from a week before. Even the necklace of bruises around his throat have faded enough to be easily covered by a red scarf. 

He looks every inch the adventurous explorer compared to Stiles’ incompetent boffin. 

“Oh, uh,” stiles stammered briefly. “Hello there.” 

Scott glances towards his brother frowning briefly before grinning at the man in front of them. 

“Hale!” He shook the mans hand jovially. “Smashing day to begin an adventure eh Hale?” 

“Yeah sure. Smashing.” Derek pats his pockets quickly raising an impressively expressive eyebrow at Scott. 

Scott flinches back putting himself halfway behind his brother who only resisted rolling his eyes because he had manners. 

“Mister Hale, can you look me in the eye and swea-“ Stiles barely paused as he changed words. “-guarantee this isn't- isn't some sort of flimflam? Because I'm warning you-“ 

“You're warning me?” Derek looked the younger man up and down in a dismissive way before stepping intimidatingly up into his personal space. Stiles doesn't back down. “All I can tell you mate; is that my bloody colonel found a map in an ancient fortress and my whole damn garrison believed in it so much they marched halfway across Libya and into Egypt to find that Gods forsaken city. Like I said before; all I found was sand and all the four hundred other men I was with found was death.” 

“They were wiped out by Tuareg warriors,” Derek sighed looking at his shoes before raising fierce green eyes to meet shocked honey-brown. “Those men were my family and I'm taking you to the place they all died. Does that sound like a joke to you?” 

Derek picks up his duffle bag and marches onto the barge leaving a stunned Stiles and grinning Scott behind. 

“Oh yes,” Scott took a swig from a flask. “Filthy, rude, a complete scoundrel. Nothing to like there.” 

Stiles’ cheeks burn a fierce red as his brother shares a cocky grin. Scott never knew what shouldn't be shared in polite society. 

“Scotty-“ Stiles began until a shoulder slamming into his own making him stumble forward stops him. 

The man does not apologise: however no one would have expected him to. 

“A bright good morning to all,” the warden tips his ragged hat at the brothers. 

“You. What are you doing here?” The librarian's tone could mistakenly be considered polite. 

“I have come to protect my investment,” he bows slightly with a green toothed smile before heading for the barge with a jaunty wave. “Thank you very much!” 

The brothers share a exasperated look before boarding the passenger barge. 

\--

The moon shines it's light across the river as the barge cuts smoothly across it. The silver flickers on the water entrance the librarian as he nurses a drink and reads quietly. 

He'd spent most of the last day reading and generally staying out of people's way but he had grown bored of his room and decided on a trip to the bar on the bow of the boat; however the press of humanity and the Americans drunken posturing had made him grab a drink then retreat a ways down the railing to a secluded table in the shadows. 

Scott had stopped by his table briefly to squeeze his shoulder before moving onto goading the Americans into a game of cards. 

From his seat Stiles could barely hear the conversation so he was startled into a very manly squeak, thank you very much, when a gunny bag lands loudly on his table and unrolls to reveal a selection of guns, ammunition and something suspiciously like a bundle of dynamite. 

“Sorry,” Derek scoffs with a cheeky grin. “I didn't mean to scare you.” 

“The only thing that scares me are your manners,” Stiles muttered under his breathe. “I am an English gentleman Mister Hale I do not scare so easily.” 

“Still angry I kissed ya huh?” Derek asked as he began cleaning a shotgun. 

“If you would call that a kiss,” Stiles hisses stiffly. 

“Wasn't your first was it?” Derek glanced up and considers Stiles with a raised brow. “Kissed by a desperate guy for your first time. Huh.” 

“I beg your pardon!” Stiles’ mouth formed a perfect O of outrage. “I happened to go to boarding school!” 

“Well that explains it,” Derek huffed laughing. 

“Explains what?” Stiles could feel his eyes narrowing. 

“Well ya certainty scream ‘prep school dandy’” Derek smirked eyes bright. “Acting all posh and proper out in the desert.” 

“Just because I have manners and believe in standards of dress does not make me a dandy,” Stiles spat the word with derision. “At least I'm not some horn dog lowlife who'll kiss just any warm body!” 

“Well I can't exactly argue that,” Derek pulled another bag into the table opening it to reveal more dynamite, pistols, hunting knives, a massive elephant gun and what looked like hand grenades while grinning flirtatiously. “I am a horn dog.” 

“I'm sorry,” the younger man began with barely disguised disbelief staring at the grenades. “Did I miss something? Are we going into battle?”

“Last time I was there everybody I was with died,” Derek moved onto cleaning a revolver with practiced ease. “There's something out there you know. Something under the sand.”

“Oh, well,” Stiles felt his face slide into a mix of empathy and confusion. “Well I'm hoping to find a certain artefact. A book actually. But well my brother thinks there's treasure. What do you think out there?” 

Stiles’ enthusiasm for historical discovery quickly drowns out any confusion over the previous conversation. 

“In a word? Evil. Or death,” Derek contemplated the memories flashing across his mind. “The Tuaregs and Bedouin believe Hamunaptra is cursed; they call it the ‘doorway to hell’”

“Ahmar is Ossirion. “Passageway to the underworld” actually.” Stiles corrected idly with a know it all grin. “I happen to not believe in fairytales Mister Hale. However I do believe one of the most famous books in history is buried out there The Book Of The Living. My father told me stories of it as a boy. It's what first interested me in Egypt as a child. It's why I came here. Sort of a life's pursuit.”

“And the fact that it's made of pure gold makes no never mind to you right?” Derek asked with a cheeky grin. 

“You know your history!” Stiles crowed delighted by his knowledge. 

“I know my treasure,” Derek corrected. 

\--

Two nights later found the adventurer leaning against the railing watching the moonrise. Turning back toward the cabins he contemplated the librarian and the challenge the younger man offered. He had a fiery temper and quick wit that challenged Derek in every conversation. He was almost worth the risk to court the young man. 

Smirking the mans eyes trailed across the deck taking in a set of wet footprints leading towards the guest cabins.

A quick glance over the railing showed a dingy tied to the side of the barge. With a quick motion the man pulled a hunting knife from his boot and cut the mooring line; the smirk had quickly morphed into a predators grin. 

Stalking forward he tracked the wet prints to the eccentric librarians door. 

\--

Stiles was trying to read. The bloody American was distracting even when he wasn't in the room. 

“That wasn't even a real kiss,” Stiles scolded himself. “And he's a he!”

Flinging an erratic arm in the air he knocked a book of the shelf sending it flying to the floor in a flutter of pages. 

“Jeez you need to buck up mister.” Stiles grumbled under his breath. “You are an English gentleman and not some pampered twit.” 

A rough scraping sound had Stiles spinning on the spot a hand half raised in defence. 

A rough tattooed man stood dripping river water into the carpet as he stalked forward with a menacing grin. In the low lamp light a silver hook gleamed dully scraping across the wall creating the noise that first alerted stiles. 

“Where is the key?” His gravelly accent sent a shiver of fear down the younger mans spine even as it garbled the language. 

“Key?” Stiles stammered staggered backwards. “What key?” 

The man sneered as the librarian realised he was trapped. His shoebox of a room consisted of a bed, door and tiny window. With a armed man advancing on him Stiles did what any well bred young man who went to boarding school would do; he yelled a challenge and charged at the man dropping low to land his shoulder into his would-be attackers stomach before launching himself upward. 

The move successfully launched the man with the hook over Stiles' shoulder to land in a dazed heap on the floor. Unfortunately Stiles was not the most graceful young man. Standing he stared slack jawed at the fire racing across his small cabin as the oil from a lamp he knocked over spread wildly. 

Gasping in horror he stumbled back towards the doorway only to fall into Derek's arms. The American had a gun out and a fierce scowl on his face. 

"What did you do?" He drawled lowering his gun but not holstering it. 

"This time? Nothing!" Stiles stumbled out of the gun mans arms. He gestured wildly towards the fire. "I was attacked. I'm innocent!" He paused his gesturing to slip past a rush of scrambling passengers; joining the desperate escape. "Perhaps the fire could have been avoided-" a bullet imbedded itself in the wall above Stiles head as he weaves through cargo boxes eyes flittering back and forth. "And perhaps we could have avoided being attacked. Actually why are we being attacked?" 

Stiles stopped dead still and turned to the adventurer following in dumbstruck silence. 

"Well?" He placed his hands on his hips and threw a challenging look at the American. "What did you do Mister Hale?" 

"Me?" Derek stared in shock at the boffin. "What makes you think it was something I did?" 

Stiles threw his arms up in exasperatiron before stomping his way towards the bow of the boat where he'd last seen his brother drinking. 

"I am annoying yes, but I am not the one with the criminal background!"

Derek Hale snorted in disbelief and was surprised when the younger man spared a guilty glance over his shoulder. 

"Well never caught," he grinned slipping lithely past other passengers. "And they could never prove anything." 

Before Derek could think to reply another body crashed against his. Staring in disbelief he picked up the man who fell into him by the collar. 

"Huh it's Matt," his voice bland as he threw the man overboard in a single swift motion. "Bye Matt." 

\--

Stiles had a plan. It was generally the only plan he ever stuck to: Find Scotty. 

To add to the plan he had an American gunman stalking along behind him. Which pros: guy with a gun. Cons: American guy with a gun. 

Stiles would have felt guilty about the stereotype however when he emerged from around a corner to the bow of the ship he bore witness to the hollering and hooting American gun fight occurring just meters away. He stood stock still in fascination at the absolute joy the Americans gained from the fight. He'd never seen people so delighting in a life or death situation. 

He turned a suspicious eye on Derek standing behind him with a closed off expression. 

"Do you find as much joy from near death experiences mister Hale?" He asked curiously. 

"It's not the death part that's exciting librarian," he cocked his gun and shot a man running towards them with quick efficiency. "It's-"

He cut off as Scott slammed into the wall next to them holding a bottle of whisky. 

"Well I say what a lively night gents?" He indicated the barge railing and the land beyond with a drunken wave of his hand. "Shall we disembark?" 

Derek hale sighed as he gripped Scott's collar and bodily slung him over to railing while confiscating the whisky bottle. 

He took a swig before handing it to Stiles with a devilish grin and jumping overboard bag gripped in hand. 

Stiles sighed, took a long gulp, placed the bottle on the deck climbing the railing. 

"Americans." He muttered in fond exasperation before throwing himself after Derek. 

\---

Spluttering on the rivers edge Stiles stared glumly over at Matt who was gathering his bedraggled group. 

"Hey Hale!" Came a shout from across the water carrying through the commotion of people and animals desperately trying to distance themselves from notoriously croc infested waters. "Looks to me like I've got all the horses!" 

Derek shook his head and turned away trudging towards the distant lights of a small town. 

"Hey aren't you worried he's going to beat us?" Scott jogged to catch up to Hale while stiles staggered along. 

"No." 

"And why is that mister Hale?" Stiles asked from behind the other two. 

"Because he's on the wrong side of the river," Derek replied. "And camels are faster." 

\---


End file.
